


Paris Burning: New York

by thecitysmith



Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: F/M, Racism, Slavery mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7554070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecitysmith/pseuds/thecitysmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories for the greatest City on earth. How he got there, and how he fell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

New York City hadn’t appeared yet. 

On the surface, no one appeared to be worried. New Yorkers were busy enough without wondering what their City was up to. The US was a fairly new country, and Cities took time to shape and grow into personalities of their own.

That was the official story anyway.

-

Governors and senators were quick to dismiss the fact that, actually, New York was older than the US, and shouldn’t they at least have some inkling of what’s going on? Others began to mutter about Paris. The two nations were close, they’d even let the French build a monument in this city, maybe somehow their influence had leaked over. New Yorkers were proud and tough- but they didn’t want to be _Cityless_. That only happened to unimportant little places, not like here surely? Surely they’d done enough to be noticed? Even Paris had existed at one point, though no one was quite sure what happened to him.

Washington D.C kept tight lipped, the hypocrite. Austin fiddled with his fingers. Chicago smiled lipstick-sweet, like she knew something they didn’t. She'd had this problem too.

Because they did know. They knew their brother existed.

And they knew that the humans were covering it up.

And they knew they wouldn’t be able to do it forever.

Because every few years New York City walked into the governor’s office and introduced himself, and was promptly ignored, or insulted, or even laughed at before being told to leave. He wasn’t allowed here.

After all, the sign on the door was clear:

“No coloured people”.

–

It was March 1968.

A great man had a dream, and fell.

And America screamed.

Riots flooded the streets. Blood splattered on government steps and men in power were left cowering as the voice of the people battered their windows and called their brothers to arms because if you don’t let us dream we won’t let you sleep.

In the streets of New York, there was a cop called Jones. He was new to the job and nervous and the crowd was roaring like an animal let off its leash. He’d forgotten his gloves, his hands were sweaty around the gun and his finger just…slipped.

The shot sent the crowd scattering, bellowing, screeching. It hurt, it hurt all of them and they weren’t sure why.

Another black man fell.

But this one didn’t die. An eerie silence fell over the crowd, the pedestrians, those watching from the streets and the windows of their offices, because they all felt it. The jolt inside their chests, like a pain so sweet it took away their breaths. Trains ran underneath their feet and cars hooted in the distance and the heartbeat of New York still thrummed inside of them, despite the blood that now spread across the sidewalk.

The black man stood.

They watched him. Watched his sad, old eyes. Watched the shirt sleeve slip back to reveal that terrible brand on his shoulder. Watched the blood fade as the wound healed because everyone knew only fire could finish him.

New York City stood.

He looked back at them, the silent, the oppressed, the ignorant. The tired, the poor, the huddled masses who had come to him and who he welcomed. They followed him to the centre and for once all of New York city was silent as they watched him stand on the roof of a yellow cab and slowly raise his fist into the air.

“And now you will listen,” he said, with the cries of a thousand slaves inside. “Because now, we have a voice.”

 

(Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last)


	2. the sirens, the sirens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> that 9/11 discussion that led to this. Warnings are obvious.

There were messages on his answering machine.

“New York, are you there?” Lansing.

“New York, God, pick up the phone.” Austin.

“I’m in the hospital with Washington. He got hit too. Can you please pick up the phone, tell me you’re okay?” Salem.

“Please pick up, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but please pick up.” Tallahassee was crying.

New York did not pick up the phone.

–

He walked through his own streets.

New York’s hands were caked in dirt and blood. Dust lined his face and powdered his hair white. He looked old. His children passed him, quiet, uncomprehending. They looked at him with no recognition. He wouldn’t recognise himself. The skyline had changed. He had changed.

His shoulderblades had shattered. Two lines of blood poured down his back. New York bled onto his streets.

But he didn’t fall.

–

Madrid prayed.

Berlin lowered his flags.

London gathered the grounded children to her and sang to them.

None of them said sorry. Memories of war ran deep and they knew what it was like. Bombs were designed to scar. Warsaw avoided mirrors. Dresden’s hands still shook. They knew sorry was never enough.

He thanked them for their support. He assured his allies he was still strong. He stayed calm and sure and never once faltered.

Weeks later, he was in bed with Ottawa when she ran her hands over the scabbed marks on his back and said with a terrible, terrible gentleness;

“They look like wings.”

It was only then that New York allowed himself to cry.


	3. Mirrors (new york city sighing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag splurge that became word thing

New York is tired, New York is buzzing. The sweet suit the slick city streets, wet concentrate and hard sidewalk tramped on by millions of black soled shoes and sometimes he searches their weary faces and tries to remember what it was like before. Because these are his children but sometimes sometimes it’s hard to recognise them because when he stares into the mirror it’s hard to recognise himself: clean cut office board ready money in his pocket cocaine dust on his nose shiny shoes and suit. Sometimes he walks and they don’t see him either because he’s just another suit so he stares that mirror cracked and tries to remember what he was before. 

But the lights of New York City shine out of his eyes and they’re beautiful they really are just like the cufflinks and rings he wears that glitter like the empire state building they’re a part of him like his skin that’s the worn sidewalk like the scars on his back that are healing like lady liberty tattooed over a fading brand but still he looks and wonders he is a suit and he is a city but is he a soul? Because the other two are so large and demanding that sometimes he wonders if he’s a person at all or just a hollow shell a suit to be put away at the end of the evening. 

The alarm goes off, another morning starts. The trains roar as his steady heartbeat, buskers are already singing in his veins. He has businesses to run and people to convince and palms to grease and protests to join, because if he doesn't have a soul that doesn't matter because his children _do_. So he flips a coin (because he chooses to bet on both sides) and grins white and blinding and just him just himself in that one second. Because the City streets are long and the skyscrapers are tall but they won't last. He won't last. But that's alright. Today's enough.


	4. There's a place in the City where the password is silent

1920’s America.

During the Prohibition era, a glamorous lady in gold sets up a Speakeasy for a very exclusive clientele. The citizens of Chicago swirl about her, rich boys, beautiful women, mob men, all looking for that sought out invitation, only to be turned away by a twist of her red lipsticked lips.

If they ever did enter, they would be surprised to see who they found. Men and women of all ages, all races, all classes, gathered together with absolutely nothing in common. To human eyes, anyway.

Dressed in gold, Chicago smiled and welcomed her brothers and sisters. 

Straining under the ridiculous laws of their humans, laws that had just kept piling up since the Civil War, the American Cities looked for a place to escape. This was it. Built under the mayor’s own property, fitted with cushy seats, a stage, and most importantly of all; a well-stocked bar.

Their border cousins, up north and on the coasts, they brought the liquor. Austin and Knoxville stood guard at the door. Washington DC was slumped over the bar in an ill-fitting suit, the sleek sisters, Salem and Boston sat next to him, swilling down gin that had burnt through a bathtub not two nights ago. They grinned in unison and asked for another round. Durham and Detroit spoke quietly in the corner. Glasses clinked as Los Angeles, ever an angel, served the drinks from the bar.

This was where it started. With New York sat in the corner, fedora tilted low on his face. With smoke drifting out from San Fran’s lips. With New Orleans crooning in the background. A quiet place, to start a war.

No, not that one.

This war would be the Cities’ own.

New York knew that. It had been inevitable since the Civil War and the humans went running scared. Actually it had been inevitable since Cities were born black, if you asked him. Sure, the Euros had yet to feel the humans’ grip tightening. But humans were humans, and when they gave in to temptation, oh those older ones would lash out faster and fiercer than any of them. But not yet.

For now, here in America, it was a slow burn, like drink that was savoured. New York City smiled, eyes glittering, and went to the bar.


	5. Never Sleeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> replying to ask from thebaconsandwichofregret

New York is jittery. He stalks through the streets tonight, eyes flashing bright in the darkness- sun off the windows of his skyscrapers. It had been- what- three nights since the cocaine and the clubbing and the lights being too bright (it’s expected, of Cities, to keep smiling, to keep partying. That is, if they want to be trusted. Atlantis is gearing up and any City that looks unhappy makes the humans unhappy. New York lived through the Nixon years. He knows how to dance this dance. So he smiles, jokes, and does lines off a mirror without looking at his reflection)

and at night? He walks.

The suits are put away. He pulls on a hoodie and walks to where the poorest are. Furthest away from Wall Street, where people greet him by name. (cops don’t. They never had, not since he was first recognised from spitting out a bullet in the middle of a protest. That kind of thing leaves an impression you know? Or maybe it’s the hoodie.

or the slave brand

New York’s not that old but he has a _long_ memory.)

He walks until he feels like himself again. He can’t sleep but he can do other things. He can listen. He can walk until he forgets he has feet and he’s only city. Yellow cabs flash pass and the skyscrapers vibrate, like the higher pitch of a car revving up to go. The office blocks tap a little. You wouldn’t notice at first but after you do it never stops- endless numbers and lines pattering away- he should be grateful he guessed- it used to be the snap and clang of typewriters instead of the soft pad of keyboards. Tech was good for some things. It’s the apartments he likes the most though, they hum. Lower, almost guttural cos in ‘em is a thousands murmuring voices of his children living out their lives in one long sound.

He listens to that and he walks until he’s not walking cos he is the streets and the glass in the air shimmers and rattles with his breaths and the trains roar underground and he can feel the bricks move as he curls in on his loud, brash, bright children cos it’s gonna be a cold winter.

something flickers.

he opens one eye. there is something, green/blue/dripping. the sewers gurgle. taps squeak on and off. pipes leak. water. water. clouds start rolling in overhead.

Before the Cities had letters, they found other ways of communicating. Carvings on cave walls. Paintings across mountains to speak to those across the sea. Hieroglyphics. In civil wars, when you and your kind are being hunted down and you need to leave a warning where anyone could see them, as long as they knew where to look. And, when the letters are being watched and the Cities are forced to smile. Sometimes they go back to the old ways.

(there’s a old tale in New York, told by every cab driver looking for a tip. In street corners. By anyone trying to make their own tag. It’s short, and simple- he doesn’t have time for myths. It’s this:

In New York- sometimes the graffiti _moves_ )

Graffiti had always been a part of New York’s skin. His veins- his trains- run with ink. He’d never done the art himself. He never needed to. New York comes back to his feet beside some deli- where the wall was all snakes and figures with angular faces, tagged with massive curving letters of boys who wanted to have that little bit of immortality, here, anywhere, even right above the trashcans. (two of them, he knew, were dead. No, not from gangs or wars. Old age. Humans twisted him up so bad sometimes)

The snakes hiss, trying to slither away. The figures guard the boys’ names at New York’s glance. He found the problem: there, in blue and green and dripping letters- someone scrawled across his skin-

ATLANTIS LIVES

they were waiting for him at the end of the alley.


	6. News

_'I am the master of my fate, I am the Captain of my soul.'_

New York recites this in his head, trying to keep calm, to ignore the insults, because he knows that they are just waiting for an excuse.

He still flinches when the handcuffs bite his wrists.

-

There will be no easy end for this.

\- 

Atlanta burst in on the conference, startling Baltimore and sending Detroit rocketing to her feet. 

“New York’s been arrested!”

They move together. Baltimore and Detroit are out of the hall in seconds, going up and into their hotel room. Atlanta bounced along behind, phone in hand, almost excited. 

“What have they arrested him for?” Baltimore demanded, coming out into the corridor. Behind her, Detroit was grimly stocking up. Pulling on her boots, sliding a knife into one pocket. 

“They say he was spreading Atlantic propaganda. Graffiti or something.”

“Bullshit, that stuff has been turning up everywhere." 

"Not fresh. And not right where a City was…” Atlanta’s eyes darted to the side. They weren’t saying something. 

“They’re only doing it because he’s the most powerful City in this country. Because’s he’s been speaking out.”

“They hate us.” Detroit said softly. Her voice rasped. The drought- the water being shut off in each of her neighbourhoods, it had caused that. She was so thirsty now. Stupid of them, to make the water be so tempting. “They’ve always hated us and they always will.”

“So what now?”

“Now.” Detroit drew up her hood. “Now we march."


	7. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask: 'Does New York survive all the shit going on?'
> 
> Me: 'Depends what you mean by survive.'

New York’s eyes flickered at the buzz and clang of the opposite cell’s door opening and closing, the cuss and spit of the newest occupant and the slap of the officer’s shoes as they walked away. 

He could tell, from the murky mind of the man who was returning to his office and his old reruns, that it was because he thought New York was still asleep.

That was understandable. He was lying flat on the bed. And the movement of his eyes wasn’t noticeable unless you knew what to look for. They’d barely opened; it was more of a shift behind the lids before stilling again, like a lizard on hot stone unwilling to move just yet. 

The officer hadn’t stopped, he didn’t know the movement, didn’t recognise it. You could be born in New York without understanding it. Family didn’t always breed loyalty. The ones who did know him were smart enough to stay away, instead of peering in like it was feeding time at the zoo.

‘Hey, cousin.’

Speaking of being smart enough to stay away…

‘Cousin!’ the occupant in the cell opposite was still talking. New York rolled over to try and lessen the noise in his head (some got drums, New York didn’t. He got something closer to a scream, like a train about to heave off its tracks) noise that was telling him to get up, get into that cell, and tear the intruder right out of his borders. He had _no right_ to be here, no right to be here without New York’s permission.

But then when would he have gotten it? New York grinned mirthlessly. It wasn’t like they were letting him take visitors.

‘New York!’ came the voice again. In any other jail he would’ve been told to shut up by now, possibly with threats, but it was just them here. The other cells had been emptied, their humans carted off elsewhere to make room. 

New York eyed the white-painted cells, counting them off under ugly fluorescent light…just how many Cities did they plan to cram in here…?

‘What, you think you’re too good to answer me? New York!’

‘I think you’ve been painting on my walls boy,’ New York replied. Raising his head, expressionless. 

Opposite him, fingers laced together, Atlantic City blinked, a deceptively boyish curl falling over one eye. He grinned and was almost sheepish, except New York knew politicians and slick salesmens’ tricks.

He was almost impressed; who knew Atlantic City would’ve raised himself out of the dust to become _this?_

‘You know about that then huh?’

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘And the humans blamed you anyway.’ That was a mistake. For all of his talents, Atlantic City was not good at sympathy. Or empathy, probably, considering his master.

‘What do you want?’

‘It’s more about what we can do for you.’ He spread his hands, appealing to New York’s unimpressed look. ‘You see I found out a few things.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘You were a slave.’

Was he stupid? ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘Yeah–’

‘They also know not to talk about it.’

‘ _Yeah_ , lemme _finish_.’ 

There it was, a flare of temper, a childish tantrum at not being listened to. Oh, was he not being fair? Poor Atlantis City.

Atlantic. 

He’d meant to think ‘Atlantic’.

Unknowing of why New York faltered, Atlantic City still saw a chance.

‘Everyone knows your story, true. The City who was born and then picked up, put into slavery because of the colour of his skin, branded because no one thought to ask, to look, to really _see_ him. And even after you got out you had to scrape by, get a job, make a living because no one believed you, you had to claw your way up, to claim a Cityhood you were already owed. It took you _centuries_ and you never stopped. There are slogans about you. Posters. Movies. There’ll be more. You just have to decide what they’re going to say.’

‘You’ve given me the pitch, now you can go.’ New York lay back on his bed, ready to try for sleep again. He was tired every day now.

‘But New York, there’s part of your story that’s missing.’ There was something wrong with Atlantic City’s voice. New York looked back to find him pressed up against the bars, face slicked with sweat. He’d gotten out of his cell. He was _right outside_ New York’s, head turned so he could put one unblinking eye right up close, too big and swivelling like a mad horse’s.

New York hadn’t felt him move. Hadn’t seen him move. That wasn’t possible. How did he…?

‘They never said how you got out of your bonds. Never said how you stopped being a slave, all kinds of assumptions yeah. Fighting or buying your way out but that’s not true is it? Is it? No. Someone came and got you. Someone _saved_ you.’ He turned his head and pressed it straight on, so New York could see his terrible smile. ‘It was him wasn’t it? It was Atlantis. He broke your chains, carried you out. I know. He told me. Said you were so little then, and how big you’ve gotten now.’

Atlantic City’s hand groped for the lock.

‘Don’t you think it’s time you repay him?’


End file.
